L'ange et le diable
by LesMisLoony
Summary: Cosette makes eyes at a mysterious gentleman, and finds out that one should be a little more careful when flirting with strangers. Montparnasse, Cosette, and an ending that could surprise you. Slightly changed from the original version.


A/N- Come one, come all, step right up and see what I did! You know what I did? I successfully wrote a Monty/Cosette fic, that's what I did. Oh yes, I am so very proud of myself. Proud, proud, proud. This is my favourite crack!pairing, and I FINALLY managed to get one out. Oh yes. ...Did I mention I'm proud?

* * *

She saw him walk past the gate every evening. He was a beautiful, graceful young man who seemed to slip through the still summer air like a dark fish in a stagnant pond, a tomcat in its alley. At first, Cosette had no opinion of him, for she was happy here, happier than the best of dreams from her convent cot, but as the evenings ticked by she began to be aware of him, and to wait for 'That Young Man' to pass, regular as the old grandfather clock whose chimes sometimes reached out into the hot night, pushing through the shrubs and finally reaching Cosette's waiting ear. 

One night, their eyes met. His were perfectly black against his pale complexion. He smiled a little and raised two long fingers to brush the tip of his hat, then continued on.

The next night, she was waiting for him. He glanced her way again, and a small smile graced his red lips as he called, "Good evening, mademoiselle," across the still garden. Cosette could not correct him, or even hear her own words as she responded politely, for his voice was as soft and silk-like as its owner. The moment he disappeared from view she exhaled, suddenly aware that she had not been breathing at all.

And so it had gone, what might have been a ritualistic greeting between neighbours, but this mild exchange had subtly become the focus of Cosette's evenings in the garden. She heard the distant toll of the grandfather clock and counted, breathless again, until the eighth chime. Then she would smooth her skirt and straighten her spine, perhaps even daring to pull the neck of her dress just a little lower, arrange that last lock of hair, and wait until she heard the almost inaudible click of his boots on the cobbles as he approached. The heavy garden gate had become a barred stage, its curtains the stone walls on each side, and the tiny production unfolded each night as the night before.

"Good evening, mademoiselle."

"Good evening, monsieur."

And he would continue on.

Now, it must be understood that Cosette never forgot her sweet boy from Luxembourg, the darling little penniless gentleman who had unquestionably won her heart so long ago in an almost identical manner. This new stranger was nothing like Him, of course. But oftentimes Cosette would look into the mirror and be quite pleased with the charming face that was reflected there, and, though she was sure He thought her pretty, there was always that need, present in every female heart, for further validation of that truth. Perhaps she was only imagining that the glance of this new gentleman lingered just a second longer than necessary, or that his brisk pace slowed as he came into her sight, but then she had always been a dreamer, and what harm can an innocent dream do?

It had been a few months since their eyes had first met, and one stifling July night, the gentleman was late.

When the old grandfather clock proclaimed that a half-hour had passed, Cosette let out the sigh she had been holding and slowly rose to her feet. She had imagined that if the gentleman did not pass by she would be somewhat dismayed, but instead she found herself frightfully annoyed. What if he was with a woman? In the Luxembourg, or some other little park, seated at her side on a bench, his ivory fingers creeping toward hers—!

She was in a temper the rest of the night, and would speak to no one, confounding the old maid and the grandfather.

The next night, Cosette did not sit on the stone bench, but paced back and forth before the gate. She heard the clock strike at last and went over to the grate, clinging to the bars and pressing her cheek against them in an attempt to see into the street, and was rewarded at last with the familiar click of his boots as he approached.

"Good evening, made—"

Cosette cried out. "Oh, monsieur, but you're hurt!"

It was true. Her gentleman had come as always, dressed in a dark-coloured suit and a lavender cravat, but his lower lip had been split and his high cheekbone sported a long scrape. He seemed amused by her outburst. "Good evening, mademoiselle," he said again, smiling.

"Oh, poor monsieur, do you need anything? Whatever happened?" Cosette put a little hand through the bars to touch his wound, but remembered herself at once and withdrew. Ashamed, she said, "I'm sorry, monsieur, it's just—seeing you every day from the garden, it seems like…"

"Like we know each other," he finished, smiling again. Cosette found herself thinking that he had a beautiful smile and lovely white teeth. "That wouldn't be so very hard to achieve though, mademoiselle," he added. "My name is Marcel."

"And I am Cosette," replied the girl. She knew her cheeks were burning brightly, so she fixed her gaze on the ground.

Even his boots were perfectly shined.

"It has been a pleasure to finally learn your name, Mademoiselle Cosette," he said genteelly, and Cosette found that she liked the way the name sounded in his elegant voice, so she made up her mind not to correct him now. "And now we do know each other." And then—oh sweetest of dreams!—he extended a slender hand, ungloved in the heat of the July evening, and brought her own trembling fingers up to meet his soft, cherry lips. A rapturous shudder ran from Cosette's captive hand to the depths of her stomach, and Marcel seemed to sense it, for he smiled gently and brought the hand back to his lips, gently kissing the knuckles and then the back of the wrist, all the while keeping his eyes fastened to Cosette's, which were half-closed in ecstasy. "Good evening, Mademoiselle Cosette," he whispered, his hot breath tickling the tiny blond hairs on her arm, and he dropped her hand and slipped away into the dusk.

The old maid and her father were again befuddled by Cosette's erratic behaviour, for she spent the next day drifting about the house wrapped in an ethereal song, bestowing her sunlight-smiles on anyone fortunate enough to pass her, often staring in delight at her own hand. Neither confronted her, of course, for in this household, the little mistress was so loved that they saw no wrong in her. They saw her as an angel.

On the last night, the angel Cosette did not sit in the garden as usual, but pressed herself against the grate as she had done the night before, practically quivering with expectation.

This time she heard the beautiful clicking of his boots before the dear old clock chimed eight, and she knew that he had hastened to meet with her. She drew in a shuddering breath, delighting at the feeling of disobedience. A romance between herself and this young man would not be allowed, of course, and of course she still loved her sweet boy from the Luxembourg, but this was different. This was dangerous. This was forbidden. This was lust.

He came into view in another dark suit, a red cravat the exact colour of his lips, his perfect black eyes glistening. With no pretense at all, he came directly to the grate, as though it had all been rehearsed, and took both of Cosette's hands in his. "Good evening, Mademoiselle Cosette," he breathed. If she had thought his voice beautiful before, Cosette felt dizzy at the passionate tone it was now taking. He was holding her hand against his soft lips again, once at the knuckles, then letting his mouth glide across the surface of her skin to her wrist, then, turning his face smoothly away, pressing the last kiss into the fevered flesh of her forehead. Cosette hardly dared move for a moment, savoring the feel of his breath in her hair even as the bars of the grate dug into the sides of her face. The simple solution there, she realized, was to remove the grate.

He had dropped one of her arms to rest a hand on her shoulder, and Cosette suddenly found herself fumbling with the latch, unlocking the gate and parting with his warmth for the briefest of moments as the wretched barrier swung outward, but he strode around it and, taking both her shoulders in his hands, pushed her back against the garden wall a little too forcefully, and he began to kiss her almost roughly, starting at first on her neck and moving down to her shoulders. Then she realized his hands were at her skirt, pulling it upwards, then they were in places where they should not be, and then suddenly he was forcing himself on her, violently, and when she tried to cry out he stuffed one hand into her mouth, holding her tongue down with his fingers, his thumb under her chin squeezing against her throat, almost choking her, and he grinned viciously; his split lip had broken open and blood was beading along the wound, smeared over his white teeth, and, mockingly, he kissed her forehead again.

* * *

A crimson cloud of blood floated in the basin, slowly unfurling from Cosette's hands until the water was thoroughly red. Silent tears slipped down her cheeks as she scrubbed at her traitorous forehead. The round stamp of his blood had disappeared from her skin hours ago, but still she scoured the reddening flesh as her mind, unbidden, replayed the horrors of the evening. She would not go for help, or report this man, or tell her family, because she had brought it all upon herself. She had been stupid, thoughtless. What if her family found out? They thought so highly of her, and to know that she was capable of such a monstrous thing, of flirting with another man and then inviting him into the garden! This was what she deserved. Cosette choked back a ragged sob. A tiny blue bruise was appearing at the top of her throat where he had mercilessly clutched her jaw, his grip tightening in his own ecstasy, half-choking her with his hand. She quickly washed the rest of her face, ignoring the long, pinkish, over-scrubbed splotch on her forehead, and steeled herself. 

She was not going to tell anyone.

As she was leaving the room with the bowl of reddened water in her arms, Cosette encountered the maid, who was holding a white comforter in her arms. "Excuse me, madame," Nicolette said, but when she saw the bloody water she smiled and whispered, "has that time come again, madame la baronne?"

Cosette forced her trembling lips into a little smile. "Just don't tell Marius," she managed to say.

"He'll never know, madame," said Nicolette, grinning. "There are some things that husbands just don't need to hear."

Cosette agreed and took the bloody water out into the garden, emptying it on the bed of crushed roses near the gate.


End file.
